Sublimation
by Colubrina
Summary: A story that never happened about people who don't exist in an alternate universe where Tom Riddle and Draco Malfoy live and breathe and work together. It isn't pretty, but then love never is. Or is it hate? And can you even tell when the knife is at your throat and you aren't backing away, when you've dug your nails into your palms and all you can say is, "Please." AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - Content warning: various forms of self-destructive behavior, including cutting. Despite the M rating, there will be no explicit smut.**

 **This was written as a gift for my blasphemous friend with talent to envy, Ibuzoo.**

 **. . . . . . . . . .**

 _This is a story told in fragments about people who aren't real in a place that doesn't exist. Some of it might even be true. Some of it is just what I wanted to have happen. Some of it is what I was afraid would. Sometimes I can even tell the difference between the two._

 _Like all stories, it has no beginning, no middle, no end. I picked a place to start and decided that was the first day, but was it then, or was it some day in childhood when I cut my hand on a bit of broken glass? Or was it later, when it started to be about more than fear and sublimation? Did it start or end when he got married? I'll let you decide._

 _I picked an end. This, I said, is the fitting conclusion to my narrative, but that's as much of a lie as the rest of it. The sun came up the next day. Life went on._

 _You shouldn't believe a thing I tell you._

 _. . . . . . . . . ._

"You wanted to see me?"

Draco stepped into the room Tom had commandeered for an office and tried not to look around like some indigent kid. Fresh graduate or not, he wasn't some wide-eyed rube who'd never seen wood-paneled walls or thick carpets before. This kind of opulence might impress Ronald. Not him. Besides, it was his house. He'd grown up here. He'd run through these halls as a child. If there was anyplace to feel safe, it was here. With that in mind, he kept his eyes on the man who held his fate in his hands, the man who had, for some reason, singled him out for attention.

"Yes," Tom flicked one glance up from the map he'd spread out on a table and Draco could feel his stomach lurch at the casual amusement lurking in the edges of that upturned mouth. "Draco Malfoy. Eighteen-years-old. Bright. Lucius' son. Did you pay attention at Hogwarts or waste all your time on Quidditch like your friend."

Tom's opinion of wasting time on Quidditch couldn't have been clearer.

"Harry's a talented wizard," Draco said, compelled to defend the boy he'd known for years even if they hardly counted as friends.

"So that's a no, then," Tom said. "Unfortunate. Dismissed." He had his head back down and a finger tapping on the paper at once, seemingly already lost back in his own thoughts, Draco forgotten.

"I did," Draco blurted out, and took a quick, nervous step toward the map. He half-expected to be told to leave, that he'd already been dismissed. Instead the man looked up and made a sharp jerk with his chin, an obvious order to join him at the maps.

Tom began running through the past ten years of history as Draco struggled to process how war looked from the point of view of the king rather than the solider. He heard himself asking questions and he wanted to impress as he never had, and, after he got it once, he wanted to see that quick nod of approval directed at him again. He wanted this man's attention focused on him.

"Someone with a mind," Tom said at last as he straightened up from the table and Draco realized with a shock the entire session had been a test. The disappointment no one really wanted him opinion on strategy must have shown because Tom laughed. "You're an untried child, Draco. But you can think, and your ideas aren't wholly obvious. That makes you valuable to me."

"Thank you," Draco said. He took a step back and tried to decide what to do with his hands. He tried clasping them in front of him and that felt weird. He had no pockets in these robes, and he finally crossed his arms even though he knew that posture looked defensive and petulant at best. "Valuable is what I try to be."

Tom took a step closer until he hovered just far enough away that Draco could stop himself from stepping backward. "I own you," Tom said, "I own all of you, or might as well. Do you object to being valuable for me?"

Draco closed his eyes. "No," he said. It was the expected answer. It was the _required_ answer.

He could feel Tom's breath on his face. He could smell it. He'd been drinking something a lot like whiskey and Draco couldn't tell if he wanted a kiss or dreaded it. He certainly expected it. When he felt the knife at his neck instead he swallowed hard, and that made his throat press into the blade. Every nerve in his body was suddenly alive and tingles ran down his legs and up his spine. He tried not to swallow again. He tried not to breathe too hard. The cut stung. It was all he could think about and his whole world narrowed down to the feel of metal against his skin. He wanted more. He was terrified of more. He wanted to barricade himself in the bathroom back in his room and find some kind of release.

"You do realize you could take a step backward," Tom said. "Don't you?"

It was the amusement in that voice that held him in place. He shivered but didn't step away and listened to Tom breathe. _Please_ , was all he could think. _Please_.

When he opened his eyes Tom had pulled the small knife away and was wiping blood off the blade. "Intriguing," he said. "Do you like pain, or is it the fear?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Draco said. He was pleased that he kept his voice steady. "Do you usually cut at your assistants? It's going to be a trifle difficult to explain to my friends if I always return from time in your office with blood on me."

Tom reached a finger out and brushed it across the shallow cut and it felt like nothing but Draco knew the wound had been erased. "Impressive," he said. That kind of magic wasn't something they taught at school. He pushed away his disappointment that the mark was gone. Follow that thread to its conclusion and he'd run right into Atropos.

Tom turned away, his eyes and mind on the books scattered on his desk. "You learn things in a war," he said. "You will learn things, Draco."

"So I pass?" Draco could hear the hint of a plea for reassurance in his voice and hated it. Letting this man, of all people, see anything but the most polished surface could be disastrous.

"You'll do," Tom said. "Be here every Tuesday after breakfast."

Draco tried to keep his eyes off the knife Tom still casually passed from one hand to the other and as he nodded his compliance and let himself out. He kept his pace brisk as he walked through the halls of Malfoy Manor. He was fine. He'd just been startled, that was all. That was all.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _Do you pity me? Envy me? Believe me?_

 _You shouldn't. Not yet, anyway._

 _It gets worse._


	2. Chapter 2

_Once upon a time we were good. We lived under the hills and we came out to dance with the moonlight and we got drunk on dewdrops._

 _Good's all relative of course. The mortals - excuse me, the_ muggles _\- we stole might have had a different view of that. They got their revenge, though. We loved them so much they tainted us, diluted us. Turned us as human as they were. As corrupt. As cruel._

 _Or maybe that was a book I read._

 _He told me once that truth was like a cut diamond, and every facet was different, and every facet the same._

 _He wasn't the most reliable teacher._

 _. . . . . . . . . ._

Draco crossed his arms and thrust his jaw out in a way he knew Tom hated, but there were so few things he could do to piece the man's endlessly amused demeanor he found himself resorting to this type of childish petulance. He'd spent the morning head down over policies and plans and he knew - he _knew_ \- none of it mattered because Dumbledore wouldn't take advice. He'd use people like weapons, but he wouldn't listen to them. Tom leaned back and eyed him without so much as a twitch and Draco tried harder to get a response.

"This is all a waste of time," he said. His gut clenched as he said it, and he could feel his legs tremble, and he hurled himself headlong into the storm. "Why are you bothering to feed the man ways to win he'll just ignore?"

Tom sighed, the tired, patient sigh of a teacher whose prize pupil still hasn't gotten it, and Draco could feel his own need to be perfect, to prove he was worthy of love, of attention, of anything threaten to choke him. His fingers twitched as though he could claw that away but he couldn't, he'd never been able to.

"You are very short-sighted," Tom said. The words seemed cool and mildly disappointed, but they sank into the layers of shellac Draco kept over his every word and every gesture and ate away at it. "I am indispensable."

Draco could never tell whether those acid words were lancing a wound or poisoning it. He wasn't sure he cared.

"You are _ignored_ ," Draco nearly spat out and took a step towards the man, sliding around the table and the papers and the barriers he always kept between them when he arrived for his weekly lesson in politics and strategies. Every week he did this and every week he told himself he wouldn't. This time he wouldn't bare his throat for the knife. This time he wouldn't close his eyes and invite Tom to do what couldn't count as abuse when he was made to beg for it. This time he'd just study, and learn. Every week he promised himself he'd stop and every week he took that step.

"And you see that as the worst thing, don't you?" Tom turned away and Draco could _see_ the outline of the knife in his pocket and the sudden possibility it wouldn't happen, that this week he wouldn't be allowed the choice of whether this went forward, filled him with a sickening feeling he couldn't name. It should be relief. He should be relieved this would stop.

But he didn't feel relief until Tom turned back and set his hand along his throat. "I am getting tired of you, Draconius," he said. The hand began to squeeze and the room blurred but, this once, Draco kept his eyes open as if staring into the vivid blue of Tom's eyes would help him. "What would you do if I killed you?"

"Die," Draco gasped out.

The hand released him and he staggered back a few steps and braced his hand against the heavy table to keep from falling to his knees. Tom followed him and brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes before running his thumb over Draco's mouth. "Not an interesting answer," he said. "What would you do if I killed you?"

Draco knew he was supposed to come up with some kind of witty answer, something clever. His whole life he'd been clever upon demand. He still was. He'd almost been able to think when Tom had had his hand on his throat but now, with that thumb going back and forth, he had nothing. He was nothing but the place where this man touched him. "Please," he whispered, not even sure what he was asking for.

"Better," Tom said. "Not good enough, but better."

The gentle hand stroked through his hair and Draco could feel tears gather and burn at the corners of his eyes. "Tell me the right answer," he could hear himself saying and that must have been it, because for a brief, glorious moment Tom pinned him against the table and he could feel all the urgency that burned under that cool exterior race along his skin and press into him and he groaned and opened his mouth and then it was over. He shuddered and his hair fell back into his eyes and Tom had his knife in his hand.

"This time," he said, "you'll cut yourself for me."

He did.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _It is seductive to be seen._

 _See me, and I'll do anything for you._


	3. Chapter 3

_Patior._

 _I suffer. I endure._

 _It's the Latin verb that gets us the English word passion. To feel passion is to suffer. To suffer is to be alive._

 _It's a funny verb, really. Passive in form. Active in meaning. It looks, at first glance, as if you are being acted upon. But you aren't. You are acting. You are complicit._

 _. . . . . . . . . ._

Tom fastened the whistle around Draco's neck with an almost disinterested look on his face. The chain settled down, and the cold metal slipped beneath the black shirt until it rested against skin. The sun hit the snow and flooded through the windows, making the room almost as brittle as Draco's voice when he asked, "A leash?"

Tom sat down and pulled a pile of paperwork towards him because he knew Draco hated that and knew he wouldn't dare object. "How literal you are being," he said as he licked at the end of a pen before he began to make notes. "It's dull, Draconius."

"My apologies."

Draco stood, poised on the balls of his feet in a stance he'd learned since he arrived. He was ready to dart out of reach at the smallest movement. That made the way he always stood still so much more enjoyable. "It's a whistle," Tom said. "I give one to every group of Death Eaters. Owls go astray. Blow on that, and I'll know you require assistance."

"And arrive."

"If I'm available."

Draco raised his hand to feel the silver tube and Tom watched him process just how much work went into making such a thing. He'd woven blood into the very structure of the metal to make the tiny device work. Years of research and experimentation and he still wasn't happy with the result, for all that it pushed the boundaries of what people thought magic could do. It did allow his Death Eaters to contact him, though. It did allow him to track them. Especially now that they were too valuable to lose.

Draco's face did falter at the realization this was something ordinary. He'd wanted it to be a gift. He'd wanted it to be special. Tom smiled and didn't bother to mask his knife-edged amusement. "Did you want a leash, Draconius?"

"Don't be ridiculous." His fingers still toyed with the whistle but other than that he looked like nothing more than another young Death Eater. Talented. Unscrupulous. Deadly. "I simply wished to know what it was."

Tom nodded and returned to his paperwork without dismissing him. It took only a thought, a quick jerk of the molecules to get them to pull towards him, then push away again, and the metal, woven to be a part of him, responsive to him, began to heat. Draco let out a quick gasp and jerked forward to get the burning metal away from his skin. His fingers clawed at the chain to get it out, to pull it away, and Tom stopped him with one word. "Don't."

Draco froze. Tom was impressed he managed to keep his voice uninflected as he asked, "Will it be doing that often? It's a bit distracting."

"Only when I'm thinking about you," Tom said.

"Oh?" The tremor in that one word answer showed that a bit of Draco's self-control had worn away. He'd spend the next few weeks unsure whether he dreaded the sharp pain or longed for the reminder that he hadn't been forgotten.

A leash, indeed.

"Do you do that to get everyone's attention?" Draco asked far too casually. He was still leaning forward just enough to keep the whistle away from his skin. It heated quickly and cooled slowly and Tom let his eyes trace over the sight of that careful, half-submissive, half-angry bent stance.

"Only you," Tom said. He counted the moments as Draco's eyes widened and he looked pleased and gratified and hopeful. Then he added, "I trust the rest of my people to stay focused."

"Oh," Draco said again. He half turned to hide his expression, and inhaled as that shift put the whistle back into contact with his skin. He let it stay there and picked the pages with his instructions off the table. He made a show of looking through them one more time before he folded them up and slipped them into a pocket. It wasn't a tricky mission. Spy on some malcontents, kill them if necessary, return home like good falcons to be hooded again until it was time for another hunt. It was a good trial run for a beginner, almost impossible to do poorly.

"Try not to disappoint me," Tom said as Draco turned to go. The knife went home and Draco's hand made the old doorknob rattle as he fumbled with it. A single touch to the back of the boy's neck would have him on his knees. A single whisper would have him baring his throat.

"I always endeavor to maintain your regard," was all he said.

"I shall miss you," Tom said. A truth. They were all truths, but this one was a bit of a gift.

Draco turned at that, shock on his dark face and Tom was struck again by just how beautiful Draco was. He might have been designed by a god, and he was never lovelier than when desperation and hope made his eyes glitter with tears he tried not to shed. He begged to be despoiled. "Does that mean I'll end up with a scar burned into my skin?" he asked in fear. In hope.

Tom shrugged and made an impatient gesture to wave him away. The door shut with a soft click and Tom frowned at the window. He needed to get curtains to soften the winter glare and he made a mental note to have the help take care of it. Draco was probably halfway back to his room before he turned the heat up again, a kiss blown from down the hall that would have the boy whimpering, torn between the desire to savor it and the instinct to flinch away. How much would he have conditioned himself to accept before he returned?

Tom permitted himself a smile at the image of Draco trying to explain to Harry why he gasped out in pain now and again, or why he refused to let anyone treat the injury before he returned to work.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _In a godless world, is suffering the only mysticism that remains to us?_


	4. Chapter 4

_What is the nature of the divine? I used to ask myself that. It would have been better, I think, not to find out._

 _It isn't an easy thing to be the chosen of a god but once you have been nothing else will ever do._

 _The gods ruin us._

 _. . . . . . . . . ._

Snow looked pretty from the window in Tom's office. You could forget how deadly it was when a fire crackled across the room and your bare feet sunk into soft carpets. The past three weeks had brought home the truth of how snow burned. How _cold_ burned. Draco shivered how as he kept his eyes on the sheets of white.

He'd spent weeks in that cold. Harry knew how to keep a tent warm, but never warm enough. Hermione had a steely resolve that pushed them through nights where he'd been sure they would die. They'd found their target and taken care of it. A long walk out. A long walk back. Warm toes still surprised him and they'd been back three days.

Tom had taken their report from Hermione and hadn't sent for him. The whistle around his neck had stayed cold.

Ron had watched him toy with it and said, "I don't know why you let him make you dance to his tune."

"We've all got demons," Hermione had said fiercely. "Leave Draco alone." She'd set a hand on his shoulder and he'd leaned into that touch. Why couldn't he love her? Why couldn't he look at her mouth and feel the things he felt when Tom passed his knife from hand to hand? She didn't ask anything from him other than he be himself. Why wasn't it enough?

He'd watched her slap someone so hard once he'd buckled under the force of her palm. She'd added words that should have cut her victim's soul to ribbons but all he'd done was laugh and grab her hand to kiss the palm. Draco knew she had a cruel streak under her self-righteous streak. He'd felt it often enough when they'd been children. She just never turned it on him anymore. She never would again.

Tom would. Did.

Draco could feel Tom's measuring eyes on his skin. One step into the office and he'd betrayed every promise he'd made to himself to stop this, to wrest free of this man. All Tom had to do was ask if he'd missed him and Draco could hear himself say, "Yes."

The horrible thing was that he had.

He'd taken off his shirt and stood, unmoving, as Tom ran a finger over the burn. The skin had calmed and healed under a gentle touch that took away the proof he'd been missed in turn. "Someday I may let you keep a scar," Tom said and Draco shivered. Was that a promise or a threat? That was when he had turned away and pretended he was fascinated by the snow.

He'd be happy to never see snow again. It would figure that his hell was an icy one.

"I missed you as well."

Draco told himself the way goose pimples rose on his arms and shivers thrilled down the back of his legs was because it was too cold, even with the fire, to be standing around without a shirt. The way he paid attention to every sound was because he'd been in the field and awareness could be the difference between life and death. It wasn't because he strained to hear Tom move around the room, wasn't because he followed every footstep sinking into that thick carpet until a hand traced a line down the skin he wasn't allowed to keep as anything but flawless.

"How would you like me to hurt you?" Tom asked. "You surely deserve some kind of reward after your exemplary performance." Draco could hear his voice rattle out in a shudder and he could feel his nails dig into palms in fists he didn't remember clenching.

"I don't want you to hurt me," Draco said. "This isn't - "

He stopped at the feeling of the knife. "I should order some of the older Death Eaters to beat you for lying to me," Tom said. He didn't start to cut. He just held the knife and Draco just didn't step away. Tom had moved so close Draco could feel the heat of him hovering just out of reach. If he moved back into the point the blade he'd step into an embrace. If he stepped away he'd be free of this. The metal of his whistle would never wake him again with its agony. He could go back to his room and Harry's relieved eyes and Hermione's kiss to his temple and no one would ever tell him no. He'd probably even still be Tom's feared assistant. He'd come to this room every day and Tom would put his mind to work solving problems and maneuvering to place all of them into eternal power. He'd be a respected, powerful member of this world and no one would ever hold a knife to his throat. The only sensible thing to do was to move forward.

He stepped back.

Tom moved the knife as he pushed back against it so it just hurt, the metal sliding into the top layer of his skin and pulling a gasp from his open mouth, but held it back from gutting him. At least this time.

"Good boy," Tom said. "Let's try this again. How do you want me to hurt you? The knife, or do you have other things you dream of when you wake up at three in the morning?"

"Please don't make me choose." Draco forced the words out. Having to ask, having to be an active participant in his own destruction made it worse. He hated having to beg for even this small mercy.

Tom set the hand that wasn't holding the knife around his throat and began to press and Draco tipped his head back until he had it back against the other man's shoulder, tears in eyes that looked unblinkingly at the plaster ceiling. The angels that had been cast into it when the manor had been built stared down at him as he clung to Tom and asked for everything the man did to him.

. . . . . . . . .

 _I assume you think by now that you would never do this. You tell yourself that I'm sick and you're well._

 _We all have demons._

 _Don't lie to yourself._


	5. Chapter 5

_We don't really remember events. We remember the last time we thought about them. When you look back in your past and see that time the ice cream cone dropped and you cried, you are really remembering your memory over and over again, an endless series of smaller dolls, one inside the other, each with fewer and fewer true details._

 _"Remember when I dropped my ice cream at the zoo," you ask, and your mother looks at you, confused._

 _"We never let you have ice cream," she says. "You were allergic."_

. . . . . . . . . . .

Dolores Umbridge reached out and ran a hand over Draco's arm. He jerked back, shocked, and rubbed at the dark bruise, almost hidden on his skin, as if he could erase the feel of her touch. Tom stepped casually between them and spread out the architectural plans Dolores had brought by for his approval. He'd already slashed red lines through several of her proposed structures and he frowned down at the drawings again. "Draco," he said, "find me Hermione's sketches."

Draco nodded and knelt down to root through the boxes of plans that marred the decor of Tom's office. He could feel Dolores' eyes on him, on the chain around his neck, and every word she spoke itched with her own fury she was forced to act the supplicant. "You're going to break him if you aren't careful."

"Fortunately for me, I am always careful," Tom said. Draco pulled out the drawings Hermione had made, far less formal than the professional work Dolores had, and handed them over without speaking. Tom put small weights on each corner of the curling paper and made a show of examining the floor plan Hermione had suggested for the rebuilt school. Draco watched Dolores' face become harder and more closed as Tom smiled down at table.

"I like Hermione's ideas better," he said. "They start smaller, but she's built in ways to expand over time. I'll recommend her ideas to Dumbledore."

"We need to establish magic's power," Dolores said. "Its domination." They'd gone round and round on this argument and Draco had heard it all. She wanted wizards and witches to become effective despots. Tom preferred to stand behind a puppet and whisper into his ear. The puppet he had in mind was Dumbledore, and Draco tried not to think about how he planned to marry Ginevra Weasley to ensure his place in the Order, or what that would mean for him.

Sometimes Tom made him write wedding plans as Ginevra dictated them. The duties of a personal secretary, he would say, will include dealing with my wife. Draco had made noises he might refuse once, that Tom didn't own him body and soul, only for the man to laugh and kiss him.

He'd had to brace himself against the table, his hands shaking. He'd turned to water under that mouth, he'd flowed away, he'd dissipated. When he'd opened his eyes again, lost and drowned and fumbling for words and balance, Tom had smiled at him. "We're done today," he'd said. "Go."

He'd gone.

He focused, now, on the way Tom had placed himself between his secretary and Dolores. He clung to the tiny hint that Tom didn't like anyone else touching his things. Outside this office, people stepped out of his way as he walked down the hall. Tom had always been powerful and no one missed the way the winds had shifted. Dumbledore barricaded himself more and more behind his own doors and when he spoke to his lieutenant it was to demand things that Tom always promised, always delivered, and yet with every day the tide shifted and Dumbledore watched in impotent fury as his men won battles in the field but whispers still leeched away his support.

No, outside this room he was Tom Riddle's personal secretary, a wizard to avoid. Inside the room he was the same thing, and more, and less.

He sat at his small desk and began to work on Tom's endless pile of correspondence as Dolores insisted on things and Tom dismissed her. At last she hissed out, "You put too much faith in these children. That they let you toy with them doesn't make them - "

"You overstep." The words were flat and had a hint of real anger that made Draco lift his head in surprise. Tom rarely expressed any emotion other than his endless, infernal amusement at the world. He'd shown fury for less than a minute when Harry had destroyed his last horcrux, only to turn in an instant and twist the that into an advantage.

"I know you," Dolores said. Draco's hand stole to the cut still burning on his neck from the morning. Tom hadn't healed it yet and it throbbed in time with every beat of his heart. His touch made it worse, and he snatched his hand back. Tom had made it clear he wasn't allowed to hurt himself. Masturbation was fine. He'd been mockingly invited to take a lover. He could do as he pleased, just so long as he never showed up with any self-inflicted cuts.

Dolores was still talking. He hadn't considered that she'd try to use his cuts and bruises as a weapon, but she had so few left. "You'll burn through that boy, huddled over there grateful for any smile you give him, and Hermione too, just like you have the others, and then - "

"I will not." Tom interrupted her again. Draco looked down again, afraid to be caught watching as Tom folded up the plans for the magical school. There was pain and there was _pain._ He wasn't supposed to be witness to this.

Draco noticed one of his nails had snagged on something, and he worried at the torn bit as the pair he tried to pretend he couldn't hear argued. When Dolores finally left, sweeping out in one of her grand exits with her heels clicking on the floor, she shut the door behind her a little too forcefully. Tom's muttered, "Bitch" was one more thing he didn't think he was supposed to hear but, when he looked up, the wizard looked more satisfied than angry.

"Shall I go?" Draco asked. There was pain and there was _pain_.

"No," Tom said. He leaned back against the table Draco had gotten to know well over the winter. He'd read reports spread out over it. He'd eaten grabbed meals at it, bites taken as he read as quickly as he could from the never-ending letters that came from the front. He'd bled onto it. "Give me your whistle."

Draco paled but tugged the metal chain off over his hand and passed it over. His neck felt empty without the feel of the links. "Have I offended?"

Tom just passed the chain back and forth between his hands and regarded it as if he'd never quite seen it before.

"Please," Draco whispered.

"You do," Tom said. He sounded surprised and a bit restless and Draco closed his eyes against more things he wasn't supposed to know. He kept them shut as the gentle hand on his shoulder pushed him down to his knees. Kept them shut as the knife burned into his skin over and over again. Kept them shut as he fell forward in shock and agony, his head hitting against the floor because somewhere in there Tom had bound his hands so he couldn't catch himself. He was falling, and falling, and he could taste his own blood like sugar dripping into his mouth. There was pain and there was _pain_ and at last he heard himself begging for it to stop.

When he finally opened his eyes, Tom was squatting in front of him. "I'm sorry," Draco said hoarsely.

"Don't be sorry," Tom said. "It's tedious." He ran a thumb over a lip Draco had bitten sometime in his screaming and the swelling faded. A hand cupped his face and Draco pushed himself into it, seeking comfort. "You may choose one cut to keep as a reward for your stamina."

That broke something Draco hadn't even realized was still whole. Saying thank you broke another.

That he meant it broke a third.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _I dreamt I was whole once. I flew above the world on wings of snow and sugar and everything was beautiful and I was flawless and perfect._

 _When I woke my pillow was wet._


	6. Chapter 6

_click_

 _I flip through the images of my past as though they were slides, each one waving to me from the screen of my mind. I'm in Paris with my mother, careful not to have a hair out of place, careful to look happy. I have a job to do. Who I am is a job. I do it well._

 _click_

 _I'm holding the trophy and laughing because that's what you do when you win, and everyone's laughing with me because everyone loves a winner. I'm the youngest star in a century._

 _Or was that Harry?_

 _Did I stand on the grass and watch that, afraid of what would happen because I'd failed?_

 _I'm not sure._

 _click_

 _I have friends. I am wealthy and good looking and clever enough for no one to call me stupid, with marks carefully not too good. You don't want to be a grind. She said that once. Be sure you enjoy life, don't always have your nose in a book. Go out with girls. You're young. Have a good time. I make sure to do what she says. I court her smiles._

 _She loves me. It's important to be loved. It's important to be perfect. It's important to do what's expected of you because if you don't no one will love you._

 _click_

 _I'm crying and overwhelmed because the world is falling apart, I'm falling, and there's no solution. Don't look at that one. I move on as quickly as I can. Don't dwell. Put on a happy face. Put on a mask. Anyone who sees me under that mask won't love me. No one ever wants the truth that I am scared and alone. If anyone saw me fall apart, they'd turn their back._

 _I am wealthy and good looking and clever enough for no one to call me stupid. I am wealthy and good looking and clever enough for no one to call me stupid. I am wealthy and good looking and clever enough for no one to call me - ._

 _click_

 _I am lost._

 _click_

 _I am surviving._

 _click_

 _I am loved._

 _click_

 _I am lost._

. . . . . . . . . .

"You aren't trying very hard." Tom didn't look up from the desk where he say entombed in his usual pile of schemes and lists. Draco waited for the dreaded word: disappointment. Tom used it like a lash and flayed flesh from bone with one nearly expressionless word. "Three weeks in the field, you reek of woodsmoke, and the blood traitors remain the proverbial thorn. I expected more."

"I came right to see you," Draco said. He wanted to swallow the words as soon as he heard them. _I came to report_ , he'd meant to say. _I came to bring you information._

Fortunately, Tom didn't seem to have heard what he hadn't intended to admit and just shifted another page of paper. "You do have running water in the Manor, Draco. I suggest you take advantage of it."

"My apologies."

The silence that greeted that pushed on him until he dragged one foot up against that weight and turned to go and do as he'd been bid. He'd made the turn and had the cool metal of the doorknob in his hand when Tom's almost frustrated exhalation stopped him. "The Weasleys are rallying these near savages, Draconius. They're painting picture of their damned phoenix on every wall, they're –"

"You don't care about those stupid birds." Draco interrupted him, an act so rude, so insubordinate, he half-expected Tom to descend to something as crude as a blow in retaliation. As a lesson.

"Of course I don't," Tom said. He shoved away a pile of reports in absolute disgust at that notion. "But it's their little precious symbol and they're everywhere now, and I needed you to find that Ronald and take care of it."

That stung. He was more than a disappointment. He was a failure. "I know," Draco whispered.

Arthur Weasley had rejected the rulings of the Wizengamot. He'd claimed Dumbledore was ensorcelled, and then promptly fled with his endless children at his heels, leaving the Minister holding a mandate questionable at best. Ginevra's stand against her family had led them to spit on her effigy at illegal protests. She claimed not to care.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, as if that mattered in the face of not finding Ronald, of not _taking care of it_. "We'll go back out. We'll do it tonight, we won't wait. We'll find him. I'll hold him down and slit his throat myself and bring you his head." He could hear the pathetic eagerness to prove himself in every syllable but he didn't care because he'd well and truly failed.

"Do that," Tom said.

Draco nodded, struggling to keep the movement crisp and professional. The others wouldn't care. They'd only planned to be back long enough to drop off the notes they'd written every night, packed four people into a three-person tent where every turn meant an elbow in someone else's face. At least you kept warmer that way.

"Draconius?" Tom added.

He was caught by that and he nodded again, far more shakily this time. "When you next return, I expect you to have good news for me."

"Of course, sir."

"And then, perhaps, we can sit down to a meal together. I have missed you."

Draco tried to control his response to that. "Of course," he murmured. Tom tossed him something and he reached out to catch it without thinking, then almost dropped it when he looked down into his hand and saw the same knife Tom often used. His skin itched at the sight and he had to fight the need to rub at the perfect, unmarked skin Tom had healed over and over again.

"Don't forget me," Tom said.

. . . . . . . .

 _Sometimes I try to forget him. I sit alone in the bars and drink until everything is numb and gone and I don't care anymore._

 _Mostly I try to remember._

 _His hands around my neck were a benediction from a god who has forsaken me._


	7. Chapter 7

_My hands are splayed over the desk, my head bent down as if I were studying the endless reports and ledgers and suggestions that I don't give a damn about. My hair falls forward; even in memory I can see the way the nearly white strands obscure my vision. All I can see is my own hair. It hides my eyes, as if that could protect me._

 _They are the window to the soul, after all. Maybe if I hide them I can hide myself._

 _I want to hide from myself._

 _I want to hide this memory from myself._

 _I want to be there again._

 _"I should go," I say._

 _He presses one thumb into the base of my skull. I'm expecting something sharper. I'm expecting to bleed, and the near caress instead hurts even now when none of this is real._

 _"Do you want me to go?" I ask. I plead. Let me go._

 _"The door is always open," He says so cooly I can't tell if it's his usual amusement or if I've failed, somehow, to please. My head sags lower and I can feel the tears start to sting but I can also hear the scrape of the knife coming free and I don't move away._

. . . . . . . . . .

"You're going to break her."

Hermione had fled, wiping her mouth and making apologies. Harry had been almost asleep on his feet and had been waved away. Blaise had bowed and left, off to pull the wings off flies, or whatever it was he did when no one was watching. Only Draco remained.

Draco and Tom, of course.

"I am not," Tom said.

"Hermione," Draco said, wanting to keep this on topic. "She is breaking."

Tom pulled his knife out and turned it in the flickering light from the fireplace and Draco couldn't keep his eyes off the way the yellows and oranges hit the blade. It almost seemed to glow. "Miss Granger is getting stronger." Draco opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again when Tom aimed the point of that blade at his chest. "She used to faint at Dark magic, and now she does not."

Draco held very still as Tom used the knife to flick off first one button, then another, until his black shirt hung open and his flawless skin gleamed. "Do not insult me by suggesting I do not take care of my tools."

Draco felt the blood pounding in his veins and had to force his hands to hand loosely at his side as the pain started.

"If I break anyone," Tom whispered, "it will be you." He'd stopped closer and the heat of his breath on Draco's neck pulled out a whimper as even the knife hadn't been able to do. "But then," he said, as Draco swayed when he stood and pushed his eyes shut, "that's what you want, isn't it?"

"No." Draco said the word, though he wasn't sure he believed it. Destruction would be easy, certainly. Easier. "That's not… no. I don't want to be broken."

Tom stopped the knife and traced a finger over the cut. The touch was ice and fire and amusement all at once and for the first time Draco stepped away. When he opened his eyes, Tom's mouth had quirked up into an authentic smile, one of the few he'd ever seen on the man's face. "Self-knowledge," he said. "What a dangerous thing to court."

"Well," Draco said as lightly as he could, "I aim to please."

Tom set the knife down on the desk, leaving it half hidden in shadows that rose and fell with the firelight behind a pile of books, and slid a hand behind Draco's neck. "No, you don't," he said. "You aim to be seen." He pulled and, unsure whether he should protest or not, Draco stepped forward in response until the blood on his chest soaked into the Tom's black shirt. "You should have settled for physical pain," Tom breathed against his mouth before his lips were on Draco's, and his tongue, and his hands.

Some part of Draco's brain felt the roughness of the skin abrading his, the nails digging into the back of his neck, the pressure against his trousers, but most of his mind had gone blank. The world was white and hot and he was a castaway clinging to a single hope of survival, adrift and lost. When Tom's mouth moved to the skin below his ear, he let out a shaky gasp and dug his fingernails into his palms, sure he'd never be allowed something as intimate as an embrace. Tom was right. He should have stayed with the knife. This was going to be so much worse.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco ran a thumb over the scar at the base of his throat. It had become a nervous gesture without his being aware of it, and when he felt Harry's eyes on him, he dropped the hand self-consciously. "You off to see Tom today?" Harry asked, too casually.

Draco grunted. He didn't feel like justifying this, or explaining. He wasn't even sure if he could. When he spelled it out to himself, he sounded mad. Lost.

Well, lost he certainly was. Stolen. Despoiled. Rebuilt anew. His hand crept back to the one scar he'd been allowed to keep, memoir of a moment where his head had been thrown back and his body shuddering and he'd somehow still been himself. Himself purified.

"Yeah," he said when he realized Harry was still looking at him. The grim sigh that met that made him want to justify his time and he opened his mouth to say there was a pile of work that needed doing, that he was the man's personal secretary, that he had legitimate reasons to go. Then he closed his mouth and shrugged. They both knew he'd come back with blood on his shirt. Even if he did start his time with a pen in hand he'd end it begging.

It was why he kept going back.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _The scar's still there. I look at it sometimes. It could have been any tiny nick with any blade. It's so small. It's nothing anyone would remark on._

 _I wonder when I started to love him._

 _More, I wonder when he started to love me._

 _I wonder if he still does._


	8. Chapter 8

_If you ask three people what happened at one event, they'll all tell different stories. We all experience things in our own way. Your happy party is another person's hour spent desperately wishing to go. None of them are absolute truth, of course. Witnesses are always unreliable. Just ask any peace officer._

. . . . . . . . . .

Ginevra picked up her glass, swirled the wine, and fastened her most vapid smile firmly into place. Tom caught her eye as she gushed with enthusiasm about just how _cute_ the soldiers who had arrived that day were and quirked his brows up. She had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. He'd already run his eyes over the brilliant red and gold of her robes with his usual amusement, and seeing how many times she could make him twitch was the only way she was going to survive this holiday season. So far she'd clapped her hands at Blaise's attempt at a witticism, complimented Madam Malfoy's tasteless cranberry sauce, and asked whether anyone planned to go for a midnight star viewing on the solstice when she knew perfectly well no one at this table would set foot outside any room with a fire until the flowers pushed their way up in the spring.

"Your enthusiasm is a lesson to us," he said as she waxed on about the night sky. "I'd be delighted to escort you out, Miss Weasley, provided you do not wear that scarlet monstrosity."

Narcissa Malfoy nearly choked on her wine.

Ginevra had to keep from glaring at Tom. He knew perfectly well she hadn't had any intention of tromping out through the snow. "You are the sweetest," she said. "And of _course_ I wouldn't wear this outside. The dye might run." She beamed at him as she contemplated what angle she would need to land a solid blow onto his shin.

"Perhaps Draco would like to join you?" Narcissa suggested.

Ginevra looked at the boy in question. Draco's fork stilled halfway to his mouth and he glanced at Tom as though asking for permission to reply. He'd always been a follower but wasn't that interesting.

"What a charming idea," Tom said. "Perhaps love will bloom in winter."

She found the angle she needed and kicked hard enough to make him first wince and then smile at her with that gleam of dangerous appreciation burning in his eyes. "You never can tell when you'll find true love," she said. He raised his glass toward her in a toast and she kept her sweetest smile in place, wholly unsure whether she'd won or lost that round.

. . . . . . . . . .

If a dinner could be said to be interminable, this one was. Draco wasn't sure why he'd been required to attend, but watching the endless byplay of the political dance felt like sharp nails dug into the back of his neck. Every time Tom smiled at Ginevra, seemingly charmed by her, Draco could feel his throat tighten. Swallowing took an act of will. Keeping up the banter with an air of easy grace felt impossible, but he did it anyway.

"Don't embarrass me," he'd been told.

Tom had picked up the table knife and was waving it to make a point about the war and the front and it caught the flickering candlelight. Draco had to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight and shift on the velvet seat to ease the sudden tension. "Tell me more about the summer festival," he invited the blandly interchangeable woman he'd been seated next to in hopes of distracting himself from sharp thoughts of pain and redemption. "I missed it last year."

"Draconius is new to us," Tom said at her surprised coo. "But he's become my closest aide, and I'm sure you'll be seeing a lot of him over the winter and spring."

Draco watched Tom rub his thumb over the dull blade of the knife. The gesture pretended to be absent minded, but Draco could feel his throat bob and his skin itch at the promise anyway. He thanked the stars the long tablecloth covered his lap and thought desperately of dull books to keep himself under control.

"Just don't let him work you too hard," the woman said, patting his hand. "A young man like you needs time for play too."

"I assure you," Tom said. "I indulge his need for recreational time."

Ginevra laughed with a delighted trill and Draco hoped the merry sound had nothing to do with this conversation as his stomach lurched and he wished he could just hand himself over. Instead he just said, "You mentioned agricultural exhibits," to his companion and tried not to fall into the gleam of pleasure in Tom's eye. Suffering, as he was learning, could be a multi-faceted thing.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tom felt the dull edge of the knife press into his thumb. You would have had to know Draco well to see the way his eyes stole again and again to the glint of light on the blade, or how he shifted in his chair with sudden discomfort. The woman next to him, prattling on about the adorable children who showed animals at the spring sheep festival, certainly had no idea the young man at her side was struggling to keep from biting his lip so hard it would bleed.

Draco kept his hands relaxed and his voice light as he dined with people he had to despise. He briefly shuddered when Tom asked if he wouldn't mind leaving early because, all apologies to the ladies at the table, but work called, but the movement was so subtle no one else noticed.

He shuddered again when the door shut behind them and they were away from prying eyes and this time he didn't try to hide it. "You're a bastard," he said.

"The sheep festival's a bit of a dull topic, I admit," Tom said with false idleness as he picked his knife up from the top of his desk and hefted the weight in his hand. He'd always liked the balance of this piece. It was impossible not to savor the way Draco hovered, half wanting to escape, half wanting to fall to his knees. He was smart enough not to trust, desperate enough to want to. "Shall we?"

Draco closed his eyes. "Please," he said, then again, "please."

. . . . . . . . . .

 _Please_. _Please love me. Please see who I am at my most wretched and love me. Please._


	9. Chapter 9

_I assume you are waiting for a happy ending. You want the narrative to neatly turn to, 'And then he realized what he was doing was just not wise, went to a good therapist, and now everything's better so let's go get a sweet.'_

 _Life doesn't work that way._

 _I don't die, though._

. . . . . . . . . . .

He shoved the knife into the sheath with more force than it could possibly need, pulled it almost all the way out, then thrust it back in again. He'd kept up the rhythm for several minutes, almost unaware, thinking of pulling it out and shoving it into his own thigh, when Harry said, "You plan to fuck that thing until it comes?"

Draco inhaled sharply at the unusual crudity of that, but his hand stilled. "Sorry," he said, though he wasn't. "Any news?"

Harry shrugged. There was never news. People took off for various assignments and sometimes they came back. Sometimes they didn't. You stopped asking if you were smart, but Tom had been gone a week and that was far enough outside the norm Draco had started to feel something uncomfortably like worry. His skin itched, his mind ran in endless circles of blood, but under it all lurked the fear he'd started to care.

Nothing good was going to come of that.

"I think I'll go for a walk," he said. Maybe movement would help him burn away the voices that whispered he was nothing under the polish, that he wasn't real, that he was only allowed in as long as he was useful. Maybe that would work the same way Tom's blade did.

The same way Tom's mouth and teeth and tongue did.

Maybe.

He doubted it.

"Try not to accidentally fall on that knife while you're walking," Harry said. "No one's around who can patch you up properly."

"I'll be careful," he said.

Harry's grunt sounded like he didn't believe the lie, but he didn't push the matter. He had his own ways of coping, after all and Draco let the door shut behind him and pointed his body toward the exit.

Blaise eyed him as he walked past. He'd leaned up against one of the walls and didn't say anything but Draco could feel the stare as he took the stairs two at a time. He hadn't realized the man was around, but in so many ways his world had narrowed to a knife and a single set of dark eyes and with those gone he felt lost.

He didn't make it to the door.

The Death Eater handing him the folded note looked tired and dirty, though a glint of amusement lurked in his eyes. "Someone wants you," he said. "Doubt he's even taken his boots off or had a cup of brandy and he's already planning to start dictating his next bout of letters."

Draco tried not to look too eager as he snatched the paper. "Comes with the territory," he said. "When he wants to write, I have to be available."

His hands shook as he unfolded the paper and read the terse summons. _Come now._ No please. Not even a signature. He tried not to feel unreasonably hurt at that. This wasn't a _romance_. He wasn't sure what this was, but it wasn't that. It was his feet hurrying through the corridors, and his palms sweating, and his mouth dry. It was the thrumming of blood and drowning. It was knocking on the door, trying to compose himself.

The solider had been wrong; Tom had poured himself a glass of something, and either he'd been stingy or he'd already had most of it. The full glass on the table suggested he hadn't been stingy. Draco eyed it, and said, "You wanted me."

Tom was on him, glass in one hand, Draco's neck in the other. He tasted of bitterness and alcohol and when he bit down Draco crumbled and soared under the searing pain. The iron tang of his own blood mixed with the brandy and he closed his eyes. "You missed me, then," he managed to gasp out.

"A little," Tom said. The words sounded like a promise, or a threat. They were both.

When Draco woke again, it was dark. The inevitable fire had burned down and that left the room cold. "This damn house," he muttered as he sat up. Would it have killed his parents to have invested in central heating? His shirt was still draped over a chair and, when he moved, the stiffness near his ribs suggested Tom hadn't healed everything he'd done. He stretched again to feel the pull and itch of the deepest cut and relaxed into the dull aftermath of the pain.

"You'll pull it open if you aren't careful."

Draco turned and smiled at the man mostly hidden in the dark shadows of a corner. "And then, what, I bleed on the carpet?" He couldn't muster fear in the languor of what he supposed he ought to call afterglow. He felt relaxed and at peace the way he never had at Hogwarts, the way he never did here except at these moments. He might hate himself later, might promise he'd never do this again, that it had to stop, but right now all he could do was look over at his tormenter through his lashes. He'd driven enough girls to near madness with that trick to know how effective it could be.

"You do have an almost otherworldly beauty," Tom said with what might have been affection. "It makes destroying you almost divine."

Draco shrugged as insolently as he could manage. "I don't exactly feel destroyed," he said.

Tom tossed something to him, and he caught it with reflexes borne of all those years as a Seeker. The blade sliced into his palm and he dropped it, cradled his hand, and stared across the room, mouth half open in shock and lust. The unexpected flare of pain reignited him and the shallow cut made his blood pound.

"I guess I need to try harder," Tom said.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

 _When does it stop hurting?_

 _You want pain? he asked me. You like pain? I can make it so much worse than this. Just follow me._

 _Lies and truth._

 _He did and didn't._

 _Some days I'm even grateful._


	10. Chapter 10

_Bits and pieces. They contradict, I know. When I go back through my mind, some things stand out but they don't all work together. Blaise stands out more as I got nearer to the end. Was he there before and I didn't see? Why don't I know?_

. . . . . . . . . .

When Draco came out of the shower, towel in hair and bare feet on the wooden floor, Blaise was waiting for him. He tried to muster his irritation with the other man's arrogance, but he was too tired and too sated. His very bones wanted to fall into his bed and sleep until hunger woke him. "What do you want?" he asked. If he dealt with whatever gripe the man had brought, maybe he'd go away sooner.

"It's not healthy, you know," he said. "What you're doing."

Draco flung himself onto his mattress and closed his eyes. Were they really going to do this? "Tell me something I don't know," he said.

"It's a sickness. An addiction."

Draco laughed at that, and at this whole, pathetic conversation. Trust Blaise to try to ruin his buzz. It wasn't going to work. Tom had come back and he'd missed him. He'd truly missed him enough to give him the whole night. He'd still had the smell of the road on him, and his skin had tasted of salt and dirt and a week of not washing, and instead of going to his room and soaking away the trip he'd called for him.

Draco hadn't even known what he could endure.

He hadn't known a kiss could feel like punishment.

He wanted more.

"I know," he said to Blaise. "I just don't care."

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco sat in the bar, one hand on his drink, the other on the whistle at his neck. The leash. It had been burning on and off all day, but he didn't feel like running home and doing as he was bid. He took a long swallow of something probably brewed in a still out back. The trail of fire it left down his throat was far more welcome than than Tom's little summons. He wondered if the cheap alcohol would kill him. He wondered if he cared. "Bad day?" the barkeep asked. "We don't get many of you Hogwarts sorts coming into town anymore."

"Just wanted to get stinking drunk," Draco said.

 _"It's political, of course"_ , Ginevra had said as she gossiped with Hermione. He hadn't even been paying attention.

" _He's so old, though,"_ Hermione had said, and Draco had wondered idly which pureblood Death Eater Ginevra was being saddled with. Maybe the one from the north, who'd arrived with whale meat they'd all had to pretend to enjoy. Maybe the one with the long hair and the heavy accent who had a daughter her age, though, he'd hastened to assure her, not one as beautiful as she was.

"The Dark Lord's not old," Ginevra had said.

The world had gone white. The girls had giggled and he'd felt her eyes on him and wondered what she knew. Did she know anything? He'd excused himself and walked the cold miles to this bar, and sat down and started to drink. Tom hadn't told him. He'd never mentioned it. Not once. Not a single, by the way, I'm getting married to Weasley girl.

The whistle flared again and the burning pain infuriated him. He went to rip the cord off his neck and stopped only when he heard the door of this dingy bar open.

"If you do that, I will make you regret it."

Draco paused, then tore the cord free and tossed the whistle to the ground.

Draco slouched back over the cheap whiskey and waited for Tom to leave. The door shut and he let out a huff that was sadder than he wanted to think about. Funny, how he'd thought for a brief moment he'd mattered to someone even as his most vulnerable. Even broken. The barkeep had disappeared and he regarded the bottom of his glass with regret. How was he going to get more now?

"Can you even walk back in this state?"

The cold words sliced into his skin and Draco turned, steadied himself as the world spun, and tried to focus on the cheekbones and dark eyes, but they kept blurring. "Why are you here?" he asked. The words came out with an embarrassing slur to them but, he thought, fuck it. Tom had seen him passed out from pain, his last conscious words a plea for more. The man could see him drunk.

"I was informed you'd taken off," he said.

"Informed by Ginny, I bet," Draco muttered. He turned back to the bar and drained what little was left in his glass. He remembered reading once that cheap booze could be deadly because the alcohol content was so high. Maybe if he kept going he'd get lucky and never have to look at perfect little Ginevra ever again.

"She was concerned." Draco felt a hand on his shoulder, and then the whistle flew up from the floor because, oh, wasn't magic so wonderful. So very wonderful. So wonderful it had destroyed him. He banged the empty glass on the wooden counter, hoping to get someone's attention, but the bar remained deathly quiet. "I would prefer you not make a public scene," Tom said.

Draco could see his mother, perfectly groomed, telling him not to make a scene. "Or what?" he asked now. "You'll marry a pretty little red lion?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Bit late for that threat to have any power."

"You're jealous." Tom began to laugh and Draco could feel rage bubble up from his gut but before he could tell him what he could do with his mockery Tom said, "You little fool," and then their mouths were together and Draco shivered because for the first time this was affection. How could he kiss like this now, engaged to someone else? The elegance of the cruelty made him wrench his head away.

The room wobbled and his stomach rebelled.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he said.

Tom picked up the glass and sniffed at it. "You'd deserve it," he said, "drinking this."

"You're marrying Ginevra," Draco said.

Tom tipped his head and regarded him. "I won't magic you into sobriety, Draconius, and you're going to have to walk back with me. Consider it your first payment on the debt you owe me for this transgression. If you do vomit, be very careful to not get any on my shoes. If you do, I will make it worse."

"You don't want me anymore," Draco said. He knew he sounded petulant but he felt petulant. Petulant and queasy. "You should have told me."

Tom fastened the whistle back around his neck. "Start walking," he said. "As you stagger home, we can discuss you moving into my suite and your opinion of women."

"Like women just fine," Draco said. He took a step toward the door and had to grab onto Tom to keep from falling over. "Not letting her cut me, though."

Tom's smile made something in him tighten and the release.

"But how do you feel about her watching?" Tom asked.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _Sometimes it seems like I always knew they were going to get married. I wrote out lists. He told me part of my job was dealing with his bride. Why, then, do I remember so clearly finding that truth out. That truth and its consequences. Had I always known and let myself forget, or have my memories fragmented so much they aren't in the right order any longer?_

 _Everything is a lie anyway._

 _I don't know why I care._


	11. Chapter 11

_Don't pity me. I got what I wanted. And then I wanted more, and I gave more. It became more and more dear._

 _The word dear has two meanings. It can mean loved, wanted, precious. It can mean expensive._

 _The word dear has one meaning._

 _He was dear to me._

. . . . . . . . .

Draco glanced at Ginevra across the dining room table. He'd successfully avoided her until this moment and felt gratitude that, whatever she knew, she'd keep herself to social niceties in public. He didn't think he could face her pity. Harry's was bad enough.

She picked up her knife and began to cut the meat on her place. "I heard you were unwell," she said. "Better now, I hope?"

The candlelight glinted off the blade. "Fine, thank you," Draco said. She stabbed the small bit of steak with the tip of her knife, the most glaring violation of table manners he'd ever seen her commit, and put it in her mouth. When she licked the blade, he grabbed his wine and gulped down a swallow so large he began to cough.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Ginny," he said, still coughing. "Just swallowed wrong is all. Thank you for your concern."

She dimpled at him, her brown eyes sparkling and her mouth opening to admit another piece of meat. He wondered what she wanted from him and curled his palm in on itself under the table, trying to force his fingernails into the skin so he could stay grounded as she licked at her bottom lip and laughed at something the man next to her had said. It didn't work. He chewed food that tasted like cardboard as he pictured her mouth.

He'd expected to picture her with Tom.

Why was it worse that he saw her with himself?

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco sipped from the glass of admittedly exquisite whiskey and didn't taste it. He'd seen the bottle, and he'd smiled,and he sat now with his back so straight it hurt as Ginevra laughed that tinkling laugh and Tom smiled at her as though she were someone endlessly amusing. He cursed his heart. He cursed his heart, and he cursed his soul, and he cursed the day he hadn't walked away. Then he took another sip. They were talking about wedding plans.

He missed the simplicity of the knife.

"What do you think?" Ginevra asked.

The silence went on a beat too long before Draco realized she'd been talking to him. "Whatever you want would be fine, I'm sure," he said. He stood up. "I should go do some reading." It was true. There were always more reports to read, always more analysis to do. Tom watched him. He hadn't been invited to stay since he'd embarrassed himself with alcohol and honesty. The man had told him he'd regret taking off his leash. He'd made the mistake of assuming that meant more pain, deeper cuts, more blood.

It hadn't.

He regretted it every night he left the pair of them alone. He regretted it every night he stroked his perfect skin and wished he dared to slice into it himself.

Ginevra rose and walked him to the door, her stiff silks rustling with every step. "Kissing the bride is supposed to be good luck," she said.

He cast desperate eyes at Tom, but the man was idly examining his nails and he was left to flounder. "Of course," he said. He leaned forward to press dry lips to her pale cheek. She turned and he thought, helplessly, he should have predicted that.

Her lipstick tasted of iron.

He could hear Tom's laugh.

Draco wasn't sure what the worst thing about kissing her was. That he liked it was certainly one. It had been a long time since he'd kissed a girl and he'd forgotten how soft they were, how they melted into you as if every curve they had was meant for you. Her skin felt smooth against his, even her lips were softer, and her mouth asked rather than demanded. He groaned under her touch and, without conscious thought, his hands were in her hair, tangled in the long stands, and holding on. He hardened and knew he ached for touch, any touch. Tom hadn't so much as brushed his hand since he'd been left in his new room, the aide de camp room off Tom's bedroom, and told to sober up.

He'd sobered up.

He'd sobered up right into this insanity, where Tom's political fiancé kissed him, and with that thought he froze again into fear. She pulled away and brushed his hair out of his face but the room had gone white around the edges as he looked at Tom. There was nothing but Tom and the transporting fear. The man looked back and quirked his brows up. "Do you always go around kissing engaged women?" he asked.

Draco knew better than to stammer out that she'd kissed him. He swayed on his feet and wanted to drop to his knees and beg for something, he just wasn't sure what. Was he supposed to ask for forgiveness? For the opportunity to repent? To do it again?

 _I'll do anything_ , he thought. _Just stop ignoring me._

He knew Tom followed that thought, and when the man beckoned him over he tried to control his stride so he looked less like a penitent. He doubted he succeeded. "Are you ready to behave?" Tom asked.

Draco closed his eyes and heard himself whisper, "Yes."

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco whimpered when he was done. He'd tried, at first, to be stoic. He'd managed to stand having Harry and Hermione know at least something of what he did, but knowing was different than seeing. No one could see him, kneeling on the floor, arms running with blood, throat bobbing, and not despise him, of that he was sure. Tom had taken his silence as a challenge. Magic was terrible and wonderful and without it he'd surely be dead now. Each cut had gone deeper until he'd finally started to cry, until he'd stopped caring. Ginevra had sat in a chair, glass in her hand, and had watched the whole ordeal, until he'd broken. Tom had healed him as he went and the pain had gone on longer that should have been possible.

It had been horrible.

It had been glorious.

"Let me suffer for you," he'd said, and he had.

His head lolled to the side and he realized he was in his own bed. He must have passed out because he didn't remember walking here, or maybe he'd been carried. He rested against his own pillow, smooth and comforting, rather than the rough texture of the red and gold rug on Tom's floor. He'd become familiar with that rug again tonight. His knees knew it. The palms of his hands knew it. His forehead knew it.

A hand brushed hair away from his face and he shuddered. Hadn't he endured enough tonight? Was there more?

It took him a moment longer than it should have for him to realize the soft skin belonged to Ginevra, and he tried to scramble away from her but she shushed him and cupped his face in that hand. He began to cry again. "I'm sorry," he said. He'd said it over and over again that night. He was sorry he'd left, sorry he'd ripped off his leash, sorry he'd done everything so badly.

"I should be jealous of you," she said. "I probably would be if I'd ever had any illusion he thought of me as more than an amusing and useful political chip."

"I don't understand," Draco said. He closed his eyes and luxuriated in the feel of her skin.

"Or maybe I should pity you," she said. Her thumb moved to wipe tears away but she never let go of him. "I think being loved by him would kill most people."

. . . . . . . . . .

 _It almost did._


	12. Chapter 12

_I used to wonder what he felt. I would turn the slightest hint of affection over and over again in my mind as if I could say, see, he cares. She tells me he loves me. He stands between me and other people. He came for me._

 _He pays attention to me._

 _Look at me and I will love you._

 _It's not enough._

 _I thought I would die in bliss if it meant I had proof I mattered. I thought I would live in bliss if I had proof you saw me at my most vulnerable, my most wretched, and didn't turn away in disgust. But I didn't die, and you didn't turn away, and there was no bliss._

 _What do I do now?_

 _. . . . . . . . . ._

Tom stood at his window and looked out. Draco had stood here once, long before either of them had done anything so vulgar as to have emotions. He remembered that day. He'd been struck then by how beautiful Draco was. He'd had the same though tonight as Draco had raised one hand toward him, blood streaked and humbled, and then let it fall. Beauty was created to be destroyed.

Ginevra let herself back in. He could hear the door to Draco's room open and close, and the click of her heels across the expanse of wood before the rug silenced them. She opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out a cigarette without stooping to ask. _His bride_ , he thought. _They were well matched._ He turned to look at her and she had the cigarette held out to him, command implicit in the gesture. He acceded and lit it with magic. _Incendio._ The tip caught and she drew in a long breath of poison. "What would the matrons and wives of the venerable Wizengamot say if they could see you?" he asked, amused at the sight of her perfection marred by Muggle tobacco.

"They'd be horrified," she said and took another drag before she added, "Biddies."

"How is he?" Tom asked.

"Asleep," she said. "He lost a lot of blood."

Tom shrugged. That happened, though tonight he'd been unusually brutal. The way Draco had tried to hold on to his pride in front of Ginevra had ignited him and he had promised he would regret trying to shake his leash. He'd kissed the boy at the end, lips gentle on the trembling forehead. Gratitude. "I rent my own soul once," he said. "One would think this would be less satisfying."

"And yet," she said.

"And yet," he agreed. He poured himself a drink and regarded the golden whiskey in the fine crystal. Time, grain, and the glassmakers skill joined to make a diversion for the wealthy. "I assume you've made a conquest."

"Draco already adored me," she said.

"Draco can only trust people who've seen him shattered," Tom said. He took a sip and savored the way the light hit the facets of the glass and the alcohol burned. Beauty and pain. "It's why he loves me."

. . . . . . . . . .

The blood welled up under the blade, each drop a slowly blooming rose, and Tom pressed down harder to hear the gasp, followed by the miserable whimper. Draco was at the verge of begging. "More?" he asked.

Sometimes Draco mustered the ability to say no. More often he couldn't bear it and stood in the liminal space of his own hell's foyer and begged for admittance. It was impossible not to love him at that moment, impossible not to let him in. Who could resist becoming someone's god?

"More," Draco said. "Please."

Tom cupped a hand along the jaw and his victim leaned into the touch, seeking comfort like a dog. "You are beautiful like this," he said. He used his thumb to brush a tear away, then leaned down to press his lips to Draco's open mouth. He shivered at the touch, more afraid of gentleness, hungrier for it, than he was for the knife.

Tom let the knife go and it clattered down to the floor. Draco jerked at the sound, then stilled when Tom wrapped his hand around his throat. The kiss became frantic and pleading and that made him push his hand even more fiercely against Draco's throat until he couldn't stand it and threaded both hands through his hair and pulled him against him with barely controlled violence. His mouth tasted of iron and fear and under all of it that cruelest thing of all.

Tom shoved him away and Draco fell back against the carpet. "Clean yourself up," he said coldly and made a show of straightening the cuffs of his shirt. "I have dinner plans with Ginevra."

. . . . . . . . . .

 _When does it become too much? When did it become too much? Or did I just become a coward? Did I break, or did I heal?_

 _How am I supposed to know?_


	13. Chapter 13

_He loved me. He did. I have to hold on to that._

 _. . . . . . . . . ._

Draco hadn't eaten in the dining room in a long time. The upside to working long hours was getting food delivered to his desk. He hadn't missed moving in a slow shuffle through the cafeteria style food line as cooks dropped piles of something grey onto his plate. He hadn't missed the crowded tables or the din. The room smelled of sweat and grease and was too hot. The laughter of people sharing stories grated. He didn't belong here. He didn't want to be here.

The cuts on his arm hurt. Tom hadn't healed them and every fork he lifted to his mouth reminded him that he'd been shoved aside.

That, he was sure, had been intentional, though whether the continual pain was a gift or a punishment he didn't know. Sometimes he wondered if Tom would have even agreed to marry the woman if he hadn't known every smile they shared between one another would be acid dripped onto his skin. Then he'd tell himself not to assume he was that important.

 _He loves you,_ Ginevra had said. Followed by a casually pleased, _better you than me._

Draco picked up the heavy mug of cider. The handle pressed into the cuts on his palm and he flinched and gripped it more tightly. He flinched again, though for a different reason, when Blaise slid into the table across from him.

"You plan to let him kill you?" Blaise asked.

"You care?" Draco met the other man's dark eyes and waited for him to look away. He didn't. Blaise, damn him, never looked away.

"Only in that it would upset Hermione," he said and Draco smiled at the obvious lie that was the kindest thing anyone had said to him that day. Blaise poked at what was probably supposed to be shepherd's pie and made a face. "This slop isn't fit for a dog. Come with us out to eat."

Draco hesitated. The idea of leaving was daunting, and he didn't want Tom to come back, to maybe seek him out, and have him not there. Blaise saw the parade of thoughts across his face. "You're still a person, Draconius. You still get to have friends," he said softly. "Don't let him own you entirely."

"He already does," Draco said, but he pushed back from the table and stood up. "Let me get my cloak," he said. "It's cold outside."

. . . . . . . . . .

They walked back. It was peaceful as so few things were anymore. He'd had enough to drink that nothing hurt. Even his soul felt free and he breathed in the cold air and it stung as it cleared every impurity away. Harry had turned his hand over at their table and looked at the hatch marks of shallow cuts across his palm and he'd raised his brows in a silent question.

"There are a lot of nerves on your hand," Draco said. It was true. Cuts there hurt more than other places, and left him feeling more helpless. He'd waited for him to blanche and turn away in horror. Instead, he kissed the tips of his fingers. Acceptance. Understanding. He didn't ask if he were happy, or say anything at all. He'd just told a story about an old woman who'd drenched him in holy water, thinking that would make him disappear.

"Did it?" Draco had asked, amused.

"I thought about it," he'd admitted. Draco had smiled at the thought of Harry briefly apparating away just to scare a Muggle. He probably would have given the fool a heart attack. "Instead I just got wet."

Blaise had laughed with amused contempt and that sound had been contagious. Draco had pictured Harry, furious and undignified and dripping as he faced down some sanctimonious Muggle with a pitcher and had laughed until his chest hurt.

Blaise flung an arm around him as they walked back through the night. Hermione loped along beside them, her fingers laced through Ron's, and Draco looked at them and felt a brief pang. That could have been him, in love with a woman who laid his demons to rest instead of feeding them. He could have been going home to press against someone who didn't come with the seeds of destruction latent in every touch. Then he met Hermione's eyes and they flashed that same regret but under it was grief for Draco's suffering. Grief and guilt.

It wouldn't have ever worked.

Blaise let him go at the door, and said, "Come out with us more often."

"I will," Draco promised. His ease lasted until he pushed the door of his room open and tossed his jacket down on the chair. He felt the presence before Tom even spoke, and when he did he was caught, unable to move. Even breathing took effort.

"You know," Tom said from where he sat in the darkness, "I don't think I've ever actually been angry with you before."

"I'm allowed to go out," Draco said. "I'm not a child."

Even saying that made him sound like one and he felt a helpless laugh bubble up from somewhere inside his throat. He fought to keep it down. He didn't know what would happen if he made the mistake of seeming to be amused but only children protested they weren't. Only people who needed permission to do things bothered to protest they didn't.

Tom lit the lamp and the flame danced inside the glass. The flickering light slid along his face and made him look demonic. "No, you aren't," he said. "Let me see your hands."

Draco approached the man and held them out, obedient to the end, expecting to bleed. Tom took them and pressed his lips to each cut, and Draco closed his eyes as the healing began to creep through his body, untangling jarred nerves and closing skin without so much as a scar. The alcohol dissipated under that touch and he was suddenly, horribly sober.

"And wisdom comes again, like a wave upon the shore," Tom murmured.

Draco's hands began to shake. "You were at dinner," he began, then he tried again. "You didn't tell me to wait for you."

Tom began to slowly unbutton his shirt and with each bit of skin exposed Draco tensed, expecting the knife, but instead his tormenter drew fingers gently along his chest. When Tom laid him down on his own bed, Draco began to weep and hot tears slid down his cheeks as the man kissed him with infinite tenderness. "Hurt me," he begged as Tom worked his trousers down over his hips, but all he received was a finger pressed to his lips. He tried, desperately, to kiss at it, to apologize, but it was withdrawn and he shivered as he discovered that there were endless depths to cruelty. What looked like kindness could be the worst thing of all.

He wondered when he would be forgiven.

. . . . . . . . . . .

 _He loves me. He does. I hold on to that._

 _Pronouns allow me to be vague, even in my own mind._

 _He loves me._


	14. Chapter 14

_What good does it do to rule the world if you have no soul?_

. . . . . . . . .

Draco watched Tom get dressed. Each limb slid into sleeves and trousers with sinuous grace in the dim light of his small room. He'd be left alone, and he wasn't sure if he were pleased by that, or not. It was a cruelty and after a night that proved Tom could wring him dry with kindness and care he thought he should hold on to that.

If he'd wanted kindness, he'd have stayed with Harry.

 _Self-knowledge is a dangerous thing_ , Tom had said once. He'd been right. Draco had liked it better when he'd thought he didn't want to be destroyed. It had been easier to tell himself he wasn't complicit, easier to pretend he wanted to be free. His days of lying to himself were over. Now he just wanted to shatter. To be shattered.

"I love you," Draco said. _Hurt me_ , he meant.

Tom leaned down over the bed and brushed his lips across Draco's cheek. "You are beautiful," he said. "I had no idea you wanted to be my equal, but I shall endeavor to treat you as one who doesn't require permission going forward."

Draco wilted under that cool promise. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Do you wish to?"

Draco shuddered. The idle voice promised nothing, and that somehow was worse than threats. "If you'll have me," he said. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to beg. _Leash me_ , he wanted to say. _I'll do anything._ He supposed the thing he had to do was endure kindness. He wanted to laugh at how hard that was going to be.

"I will try to find time to see you," Tom said. "If I come by and you are not here, however, I will leave a note. I know you are a busy man."

He let himself out and Draco grabbed at the whistle around his neck. It stayed cold all night.

. . . . . . . . . .

At the sound of the knock, Draco set the pen down and flexed his fingers. It felt like he'd been writing for hours and he was ready for a break. When Blaise pushed the door open and stuck his head in, he smiled until he heard Tom shift at his own desk. Then the smile vanished.

"Hullo," Blaise said. "We're going into town. You coming?"

Draco didn't dare look over at Tom. "I have a lot of work to do," he said. "I probably shouldn't."

Blaise shrugged but his eyes flickered across the room and Draco knew he wasn't fooled. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where we'll be," he said. "I know Hermione would really like to see you."

"I know," Draco said. He didn't want to think about her, or about any of them. He yearned toward one flame and one flame only, which made that he was the moth unfortunate. He just didn't care. He knew he'd be grateful to burn if the fire would deign to touch him. "Thank you for asking me."

The door had barely shut when Tom asked, all cool indifference, "You don't want to go have a drink with your friends, Draconius?"

Draco shook his head. "I'll finish up my work," he said. _Not without permission_ , he meant. It had been a week and he hadn't known Tom could be so courteous. Every polite question sliced at his heart. He could bear anything, any pain, any restriction, but not this endlessly kind rejection. His chin dropped and he risked saying it out loud. "Not unless you say I can."

The laugh made him bleed. "Of course you can. You're not a child. You don't need to ask for permission to do anything."

A flare of rebellion burned bright for a moment, and Draco said, "I'm not doing anything without your permission."

"Then go."

He turned, tears in his eyes, supplications he didn't dare utter on his lips, and Tom saw it all. "I give you permission to go," he said very softly and Draco felt himself spring to sudden attention.

"Really?" he asked, hoping he understood correctly.

Tom waved a hand. "I'm too busy for you anyway," he said. "And you'll be too weak to do much tomorrow, so go and enjoy yourself."

Draco nodded. He wanted to drop to his knees and offer thanks, but he just fetched his coat and let himself out.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _Do you want me to tell you how Blaise kissed me under the moonlight until I could barely stand? Do you want me to tell you how I got drunk enough to tell him I sometimes wanted out and sometimes wanted to die? Do you want me to tell you how Hermione looked concerned and Harry made noises about things not being right and how Ginny had changed if she would put up with this._

 _Or do you want to hear how the thing I knew most that whole night was that my leash stayed cold? As Blaise bit at my mouth hard enough to hurt even one who had become innured to pain, the metal sat inert against my chest._

 _He wasn't thinking of me._

 _I once liked to tell myself he let me suffer in the cold because he enjoyed knowing I was out there, waiting for his touch like fire. That night, though, I realized he really wasn't thinking about me. I was a toy he liked to play with. He might have loved me the way a child loves his favorite broom, but he could put me on the shelf and go about his day without sparing me any more thought than the child would spare the broom when a lolly was pressed into his hands._

 _I will do anything for you if only you see me._

 _I cannot bear to be ignored._

 _I could not bear it._

 _I would not._


	15. Chapter 15

_Bede described life as a brief respite in the golden hall, as though we were a bird that flew in from the darkness and to darkness will return._

 _I fly, terrified and trapped, my wings beating as I look for the exit. They say that god lies out in the unknown darkness, in the night, in the shadows where even a child knows not to go. We are afraid of the dark for good reason._

 _He held me in the darkness and it was glorious. I knew god, and he destroyed me with his love, and I wanted for nothing. Don't ever be noticed by the gods. A truism. They use their chosen hard and then discard them like broken toys._

 _What becomes of the wind up bird when the child has broken the mechanism and it flops on the wooden floor, eternally going on a circle? I am broken. I am forgotten._

 _The sun comes up. Life goes on._

 _A blaze of light. A blaise of light. I burn._

 _I want to be in the dark._

. . . . . . . . . .

"Let me bleed for you."

Draco buried his face in his hands at the scathing fury in Blaise's voice. He supposed it had been inevitable. Sooner or later one of them would have walked in and seen. They knew, of course. But knowing and seeing were different. Tom had left when the unlocked door betrayed them and left Draco wondering if this was some new torment devised for him. If so, it was a brilliant one.

"It's who I am," he said, knowing that wasn't quite true but unsure how to explain or if he even wanted to.

"It's only who he's made you," Blaise said. He grabbed at Draco's hands and pulled them toward himself. The unhealed cuts stung at the pressure and Draco felt his blood stir at even that echo of the earlier pain. "You can go; we'll all leave with you. Me. Harry. Hermione. We'll find a tiny town and disappear."

"I can't," Draco said. Blaise just held on more tightly and Draco couldn't control a slight gasp as the flare that sent through his nerves.

"You can," Blaise said softly. He saw the dilated pupils and the way Draco's throat bobbed as he swallowed. He tightened his grip even more until ragged nails dug into the edge of one cut and wrenched another sound out of Draco. "If you need me to be cruel, I can."

Draco knew Blaise could. No one had ever accused him of being kind or nice or even halfway mannered. He just also knew it wouldn't be enough. He'd learned suffering at the hands of a master. He couldn't imagine anyone else being able to pluck at his strings the way Tom did, and by now he needed his fix. "I can't," he said even as Blaise dug his fingers harder into the cuts and his own response betrayed him even more.

"I think you can," Blaise said. He leaned closer so his breath was hot on Draco's neck when he whispered, "Try me."

Draco looked desperately toward the door. He wasn't sure if he wanted Tom to come and tell Blaise to let him go, to defend the toy that belonged to him, or if he were afraid of that rescue but when Blaise twisted his fingers against the cuts Tom had made thought and will left him and he closed his eyes and nodded. _Do it_ , the nod said.

He hadn't known Blaise carried a small knife. It was little more than the sort of tool you might use to open a letter than a weapon, but he'd honed it until it was sharp enough he could have shaved with it. The pain from the shallow cuts washed over him and when he opened his eyes again the room swam behind the tears he was already shedding. The only thing wrong was that Blaise looked at him without the mocking amusement Tom always wore. This wasn't a punishment, or a game, or a reward.

It was love.

. . . . . . . . . .

 _The end._

 _Finis._

 _The beginning._

 _Incipit._

 _The lights come up on the stage. It is a small cottage, the kind you find in the English countryside, furnished with attention to detail and obvious wealth. Most of the room is a living space, though there is a small kitchen partially visible upstage left. Ivy has partially grown over one window but nevertheless the room is still filled with sunlight. A butcher's knife is stuck into a block in the kitchen. We hear a woman yelling at someone offstage, but her words are indistinct and she sounds more amused than angry._

 _Two actors enter stage right. One is dark. One is fair. They are in love._

 _This is a comedy._

 _This is a tragedy._

 _You shouldn't believe a thing you read._

 ** _The End_**


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